


can't take the kid from the fight (take the fight from the kid)

by unknownbananna



Series: when love takes you in [3]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: (not graphic), First Meetings, Foster Care, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, VERY unfair and unrealistic depictions of the foster system, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-11-28 02:42:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18202430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownbananna/pseuds/unknownbananna
Summary: When Peter Parker meets Harley Keener, they've both lost everything. They both have no one. But maybe it doesn't have to stay that way.





	can't take the kid from the fight (take the fight from the kid)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agib](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agib/gifts).



> I really tried to capitalize my titles this time around, but they just didn't look right so I had to go back and change them--if you're wondering why everything is suddenly lowercase, it's because apparently I'm a slave to the aesthetic.
> 
> Please heed the tags/warnings!! None of the abuse is graphic, but it is explicitly stated. Also, all of this is very unrealistic and I know this. It's fanfic. Let me live.

Day one at the orphanage had sucked so far.

Okay, apparently nobody calls them _orphanages_ any more—bad associations or something. The social worker who had driven him from New York told him so. It’s a _group home,_ she’d insisted. As if that makes Peter any less of an orphan twice over. “There’s twelve boys,” she’d explained. “A small town. A nice school. You’ll like it.”

Peter doesn’t.

He’s never lived anywhere but the city—he’s hardly even been outside it. West Virginia feels worlds away from Queens. It’s dusty, lonely and cold. Peter feels displaced body and soul, like he doesn’t know who he is here. He’d never felt more alone than the moment he stepped onto the porch and read its plaque— _Jennison Home for Boys_ in crisp navy on white—because that was the moment it hit him: He’s here because he doesn’t have anybody who cares about him in the whole world. Billions and billions of people and he’s forgotten.

Ned was his only friend and his parents didn’t have enough money to care for a second child, so social services uprooted him and tore him away from his home, sold the apartment, took his cell phone (because he couldn’t pay for that either), and sent him away.

May is buried in New York next to Ben and his parents, and Peter is here.

When he first arrived he’d been largely left alone, shown where to put his things but then left to his own devices. Mrs. Jennison had told him that they would introduce him to all the other boys at dinner that night, and when he’d simply nodded she corrected him until he said _yes, ma’am,_ before sweeping off and leaving Peter to cry by himself on his dormitory bed.

He’s not proud of it. He’s glad he was alone.

It didn’t take long for him to unpack—he’d hardly brought anything. They’d told him one backpack and one trash bag, that was all, so he packed some clothes and some books and every family photograph he could find. He left his science awards, posters, knick-knacks and childhood memories behind. (He’d left the suit, too. He wasn’t Spider-Man any more.) So, he’d unpacked carefully but quickly, giving everything he owned a place, and he’d sat on his bed and wondered.

Peter stayed in the dorm for the rest of the afternoon. He’d only left the room he would be sharing with five other boys once (he’d snuck downstairs and hesitated before grabbing an apple from the kitchen fruit bowl. The social worker had forgotten to give him lunch and he was scared to ask for more). But he’d scurried back upstairs as soon as he had come down, and the other boys left him alone.

He’s grateful. He really is. He wants to be alone.

So, he’s startled when Mrs. Jennison calls from downstairs.

Earlier she had spoken to Peter quietly, but he’d thought that there was a hardness to her voice like iron behind her words. Now that she’s loud, he can tell she was one of those people who can effortlessly project her voice, cutting through noise without shouting. “Boys!” she says, and Peter hears all the chatter downstairs die as if someone pulled the aux cord from the speaker. “Downstairs! Now!”

Peter gets to his feet and walks over to the door, swiping under his red eyes to remove any last residue from his tears before turning the knob and stepping into the hallway. He’s not alone. Three little boys are hurrying out of the other dormitory, two of them (obviously twins) holding hands as they hurry to the stairs. The other boy spares Peter a passing glance, but his eyes are wide and a little scared, and he looks back toward the floor.

Not knowing what else to do, Peter follows them.

The boys are all gathering in the back room behind the kitchen. They aren’t in lines, but there’s a rigidity to their actions as the boys assemble under Mrs. Jennison’s watchful eyes that makes it clear there’s some procedure to this. Peter’s spidey sense is going off like mad and he can’t figure out why, but he’s in an unfamiliar environment and his emotions are running so high he’s fighting not to tremble with anxiety. He misses home. He misses May. He ducks his head so nobody will see him fighting back tears as another wave of **_d a n g e r_ ** washes over him. _What the hell is happening?_

Mr. Jennison enters the room unannounced, his steps deliberate and heavy, and if possible the boys get stiller than they were before. If Peter’s spidey senses were a danger meter they would be swinging off the charts and flashing red and _he doesn’t understand why._

“You have one chance,” he says, and Peter’s stomach drops. He knows that voice—he’s heard it from supervillains and criminals with guns and politicians with too much power in their hands. That voice is a threat and a promise to carry it out. “I will give you all one chance to tell me who stole a piece of fruit from the kitchen.”

For a second, Peter doesn’t process it. Then he realizes. Oh _gods,_ he thinks. He didn’t know—no one told him—

A boy stands up—a boy Peter recognizes from earlier, with messy dirty blond curls and a worn-out red baseball cap who’d smiled not unkindly at Peter as he walked up the driveway and who had said “ _hey, New Kid.”_ Now, he faces Mr. Jennison. “It was me, sir,” he says, and Peter’s brain short-circuits.

Mr. Jennison just nods. “Upstairs,” he orders, turning around and heading for the second floor. The blond boy follows, a resigned slump in his posture. Peter tries to catch his wide eyes, but the other boy is determinedly not looking at anything besides the floorboards. A hiss of frightened whispers rises from the others as Mr. Jennison marches away with the boy trailing behind him like a dead man walking.

Peter tunes out the noise around him as best he can and listens for upstairs. A door slams. Then, Mr. Jennison speaks. “Shirt off,” he says coldly. Peter feels something icy grip around his lungs. There’s a slither. A silent pause. And then a sound Peter had never heard before, yet a noise he was sickeningly sure of—the sound of a hard leather belt cracking against skin.

Peter feels bile rise up in the back of his throat and swallows against it. He counts nineteen more hits—during each of which he’s torn between _oh gods this is a nightmare_ and _oh gods that should be me_ —before it stops.

Mr. Jennison’s voice is hard. “Do you have _any idea_ how much we pay to feed and clothe you, boy?”

The boy’s voice is tight with pain, but it’s not shuddery. It’s steady, through clenched teeth. “No, sir.”

“To whom does the food in this house belong?”

“You, sir,” comes the rehearsed reply.

“Are you permitted to take things that belong to me without my permission?” Mr. Jenninson presses.

“No, sir.”

Mr. Jennison sighs. “I’d hoped we wouldn’t have any more problems with you, Keener.” Another slither—the belt being replaced—and Mr. Jennison says, “out.” A scramble of footsteps. A door closing. Silence.

Peter quietly excuses himself into the bathroom to be sick.

 

* * *

 

Peter finds the boy upstairs.

There are two bedrooms for the children, one for the youngest six and one for the oldest. They’re sparsely decorated. Six iron beds, three pushed up against each of the long walls, with a pillow and a blanket each. There’s no other furniture. Upon arrival that morning, Peter had been given two cardboard boxes to slide under his bed: One for his clothing, and one for his other belongings. Truthfully, he felt a little like one of those children they’d read about in social studies being sent away on the orphan train in 1910 with nothing but a box containing a book and a pair of shoes. He would’ve laughed at the comparison if he hadn’t been so miserable.

Peter hesitantly taps the door of the older boys’ room before turning the knob and opening it. The blond boy is sitting on the bed farthest from the door—probably his, Peter figures. “You don’t hafta knock,” the boy says. “We all live here.”

“Sorry,” Peter whispers. He remains standing in the doorway, unsure if he’s welcome. “Are you okay?”

The boy smiles bitterly. “Yeah,” he huffs. “Sorry, New Kid. Shoulda warned you—this is one of _those_ orphanages.”

Peter stares. He doesn’t mean to. He’d imagined a lot of things after May’s death, but not this. “I heard everything. From downstairs,” he admits timidly.

A frown creases the boy’s brow. “That’s not poss—”  
  
Peter cuts him off. “He hit you. With a belt?”

The boy blows out a long breath of air. He looks tired. “Come in, New Kid.”

Silently, Peter obeys, slipping inside and closing the door behind him. Peter’s bed, with his boxes of things underneath, is the one next to the boy’s, so he walks over and takes a seat across from him. “Yeah,” the boy confirms. “I am sorry I didn’t get a chance to tell ya sooner, but that’s how it is here. Break a rule, get whipped. Ya gotta be careful.”

“Then why—“

Anticipating Peter’s question, the boy makes a waving motion in the air. “You literally just got here,” he says. “Things are sucky enough for you.” He gives Peter a pointed look, and Peter self-consciously realizes that his eyes are still red-rimmed from earlier. “You didn’t need that on your first day...” the boy trails off with some expectation.

“Peter,” he tells him. Blond boy across from him nods.

“Harley.”

They shake hands. In spite of everything, Harley’s grip is firm. Peter knows his is the same. There’s something in Harley’s eyes that reminds Peter of his own. Something passes between them—an understanding of sorts—and Peter almost dares to hope he’s made a friend.

“It’s nice to meet you, Harley. I owe you.” He smiles softly.

Harley waves him off. “Don’t mention it.”

“Still,” Peter says, undeterred, “you didn’t have to. Thank you.”

After a long moment, Harley nods. “You’re welcome.” His voice has a Southern lilt to it—not quite a drawl, certainly not a twang, but his vowels are round enough that Peter can tell he’s from farther south. He wonders where. Wonders if Harley is as far from home as he is.

When Peter sees Harley’s fingers tighten with pain, he comes back to himself. “How’s your back? Do you need it looked at? Is there anything I can do? My aunt is— _was_ a nurse; I know a little.”

Harley shrugs, then winces at the movement. He doesn’t mention Peter’s slip-up. “They keep Vaseline for us in the bathroom. But it was only twenty hits—it shouldn’t be too bad.”

Peter’s already standing up, a flicker of protectiveness standing out in his brown eyes. “Where in the bathroom?”

“Low shelf, cabinet on the right. But you don’t have to—“

“Harley.” Peter cuts him off. “Let me do this.”

Slowly, Harley nods. “Okay,” He acquiesces, and watches Peter leave. When Peter comes back, he hasn’t moved.

Peter sits down on the bed behind Harley. “Not to be weird, but you’re gonna have to take your shirt off.”

Harley snorts in amusement as he reaches down to pull off his shirt. “This is a boys’ home,” he says dryly. “You’re gonna see a lot worse than shirtlessness. I’m just warning ya now.”

Peter gives him a light laugh, but stops abruptly once he sees the state of Harley’s back. The firey red welts he was expecting—not that that makes them look any better... But the _bruising._ It’s deep and days old, a mottled mess of black and blue that aches to look at. The angry marks from today rest on top of the messy contusions. Peter can even see thin streaks red where the belt broke the already abused skin.

Peter bites his lip. He’s not a fool. He isn’t submissive and can’t abide by injustice, especially when it’s directed at other people. He knows he’s going to have marks like these.

As if he senses Peter’s train of thought, Harley reaches out with an attempt at comfort. “It burns something awful, but it’s nothin’ you can’t take,” he says, turning his head to catch a glimpse of Peter behind him. “You’ll be okay. Plus, Jennison doesn’t want us blowing his cover, so the worst of it’ll go away in a few days, and then it just aches. Unless you piss him off and he uses the buckle.”

Peter blanches. He doesn’t want to imagine a man Mr. Jennison’s size whaling at him with a heavy metal belt buckle. “Noted,” he murmurs. “Don’t piss him off.”

“Pretty much,” Harley agrees.

“I’m guessing that’s easier said than done?”

“You got it,” Harley says with a forced laugh.

Peter starts working at the top of Harley’s shoulders, wiping streaks of blood away with a damp paper towel and then dabbing them dry before lightly smearing salve over the worst of the abrasions. He’s as gentle as he can be—even the lightest touch must hurt like hell with all the bruising, he imagines.

As he works, Peter gets curious. “How long have you been here?” he asks. Then, realizing that might be a topic the boy would wish to avoid, he backtracks, “—Or, do you mind me asking?”

Harley chuckles. “Relax, Peter. I’m not gonna bite your head off. About three weeks. Apparently the kid I replaced was a real mean one, too—that’s what the little ones tell me.” Harley’s voice is light and measured, but Peter can see the way he’s digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands and knows he’s in pain. “I’m almost seventeen, now, so I’m the oldest here. And you?”

“Fifteen and some,” Peter says briefly. Harley chuckles again.

“Oh, you’re still a baby!”

Somehow, Peter knows it wasn’t meant in offense. He lightly swats at an uninjured area of Harley’s upper arm. “You’re all of one year older than me, jerk!” he complains, and Harley snorts.

“Year and a half, minimum. That’s a lot.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Sure, keep telling yourself.”

Harley shrugs. “I will, thanks. At least you’re the second oldest here, if that makes you feel any better.” Pause. “So, where ya from? Not around here, I bet.”

“Yeah, no.” Peter stays intent on his work, but he’s relaxed some. “Queens. Born and raised.”

“Queens, huh? New York? That’s years away.”

“Certainly feels like it.” Peter goes to smile but he falters, and the expression dies at the curve of his lip. He swallows and reaches for a fresh paper towel. “And yourself?”

“Little place called Rose Hill, in Tennessee. Small town. Smaller than this.”

“I’ve never lived outside the city,” Peter confesses, and Harley chuckles.

“Get out!”

Peter can’t help grinning. “Yeah. My aunt and uncle didn’t make a lot of money, and they weren’t expecting to get me. So I barely even left the city til I was fourteen, and even then just for a little. Nowhere else has ever been home.”

“Man.” Harley’s voice is a mix of disbelief and admiration. “Y’all lead exciting lives. I’d hardly ever properly left Rose Hill before I came here.”

“So I guess we aren’t that different.”

“No.” Harley sounds contemplative. “I guess not.”

Peter’s almost finished by the time Harley speaks again. “I am curious about one thing.”

“Sure.”

“How did you hear? From all the way downstairs?”

Peter pauses in his ministrations. His pulse quickens. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

The thing is that Peter wants to. Badly. He’s keeping so many secrets in this new place he feels like he’s bending and breaking apart under the weight of them. And he’s only known Harley for twenty minutes but he _trusts_ him, and Peter normally has a good sense about people. But he knows that isn’t enough—not yet.

“Maybe later.”

Harley doesn’t push. “That’s all right,” he says. “Just—be careful. If you have any secrets you don’t want getting out. This is a hard place to live.”

Peter finishes with the last welt and caps the salve, pushing it to the side. He’s strangely touched. It’s been weeks since anyone looked at Peter with more than pity at best or cold indifference at worst—it was the norm, shuffled through a system that isn’t built for comfort after losing everything he’s ever clung to—and here’s this boy, who’s kind. Who took twenty hits with a belt for him. Who seems genuinely concerned for him. If the look in his eyes is anything to go by, Harley understands what it’s like to lose everything and stand, unsure, on the brink of a new life that’s less than welcoming, and be afraid.

“Thanks,” he says sincerely. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

Harley turns around on his bed so he’s facing Peter. “I’m real sorry you’re here,” he says like he means it, and Peter nods.

“Me too. I’m sorry for you, I mean.”

They’re quiet for a long moment. Sitting on the bed, cross-legged across from each other. Each boy surveys the one across from him and finds that he likes what he sees.

Harley breaks the silence by holding out his hand. “Friends?”

A slow smile spreads across Peter’s face, and he reaches out to shake Harley’s hand in his own. Once again, his grip is strong, but not in a threatening way. It’s comforting, as if Harley’s offering his hand to pull Peter out of the grief and loneliness he’s drowning in.

“Friends,” Peter says quietly, a smile curling at the edges of his lips for the first time in a long, long while.

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR thanks to agib for beta-ing and contributing some really great ideas! 
> 
> Song from "Camisado" by Panic! at the Disco.
> 
> Between today and tomorrow I have three exams and a term paper due--comments will be used to sustain me and give me hope.


End file.
